Page 2 of Lovesick
I forfeit an exasperated sigh, opting to kill the rest of my drink instead of, ironically, facing conflict.
Helplessness wiggles under my skin, burrows into my bone marrow, and sows an invasive seed of unresolved anger that can’t be uprooted. “It wasn’tjustmy choice. It was my doctor’s recommendation.”
“Have you had another episode since you’ve been home?” Irelyn asks, sobering on the spot and shedding her flippancy.
Calling it an “episode” is putting it lightly. Ever since I came into this world—covered in blood and screaming my lungs out—life has used me as its own personal punching bag. I don’t know whose bright idea it was to saddle me with a hole in my heart, but I’m flipping you off, asshole.
I was born with a congenital condition called atrial septaldefect, which pretty much means that the wall between the top two chambers of my heart didn’t form correctly. According to my parents, the hole was about the size of a nickel when I was an infant.
My cardiologist informed my parents that I’d need open-heart surgery to close the hole. If they chose not to go through with the operation, irreversible damage would be done to my heart and lungs, and I’d most likely need a heart transplant by early adulthood.
So, before my seventh birthday, I underwent a sternotomy. Ironic, seeing as I wasn’t even old enough to know how to spell it. I was terrified. When I was sitting in that waiting room, surrounded by my teary-eyed mother and father, I thought I was going to die on that operating table.
But I’m still here.
One of my parents’ stipulations with the move was that I had to listen to my body above all else. That meant no more competitive dance (recreational was fine), limited alcohol intake, no drugs, etcetera. I always have to tell them where I am and who I’m with, and if that doesn’t sound depressing enough, they monitor my heart rate with a smart ring I have to wear twenty-four-seven. It’s a way for them to ensure my safety, and if something were to happen to me and I couldn’t get in touch with them, the ring could save my life.
Long story short, now I’m a prisoner of Minnesota University—the one school I was adamant about never attending as long as my whack-ass heart kept beating. For one, my father’s the hockey coach for the Minnesota Mustangs. Luckily for me—please note the sarcasm—MU has one of the most renowned hockey programs in the country and acts as a direct pipeline to the NHL. It isn’t enough that hockey consumed my dad’s life when I was young, but now I have to share him during my college years with the one sport that boils my blood? No, thanks.
There’s a strange fluttering in my heart, but it’s not alcohol induced. This is the second time this week it feels like the overworked muscle has been thrown around in a washing machine and wrung out on the spin cycle.
“No,” I lie, now hyperaware of my breathlessness and the complementary squeeze in my chest.
I have no idea what’s going on with me, but I don’t need another person worrying about my health—especially if that person is Irelyn. She’s the only one in my life who doesn’t treat me like I’m fine china about to break.
Suddenly, she claps her hands together, pulling me from my spiral of self-doom with a giddy, high-pitched squeal. “Good, because you’re gonna live a little.”
I snort. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m helping you be spontaneous.”
Irelyn not so discreetly tips her head in the direction of a man across the bar from us, and like the unfortunate idiot I am, I lock eyes with him for an awkward two point five seconds before averting my gaze.
I appreciate my best friend’s efforts to reintroduce me to the dating scene, but between the skull-chiseling throb in my head, the exhaustion creeping up my subconscious, and the sourness in my belly from one too many drinks, I don’t have the patience nor the interest.
Though before I can protest, her mane of red curls is flouncing over to the sad sack who’s been singled out like unsuspecting prey, and I watch as she plays up her coy act, even going as far as whispering in this stranger’s ear. Judging by their flirty body language, Mystery Man probably has a better chance of getting with Irelyn than with me. I’d be all in support of that, you know? I don’t need to get my pussy wet to have a good time. I’m perfectly content living vicariously through Irelyn while she regales me with her exciting tales from the bedroom.
One time, she tried pegging an astrology dude with one of those selenite wands and the tip broke off in his ass. Pretty sure those things aren’t made for internal use. They had to rush to the ER and everything.
Much to my dismay, Irelyn ignores my telepathic message to ABANDON SHIP, giving me an enthusiastic thumbs-up from the other side of the room.
Oh my God. He’s coming over here. What do I do? I can’t make a break for the door because he’s two strides away from me. Should I fake a heart attack? That could work, right?
Before I have time to come up with an escape plan, my unidentified admirer sidles up beside me, disarming me with a megawatt grin that reveals unnervingly straight teeth.
Nerves wreak havoc on my feverish body, and my throat is suddenly the consistency of sandpaper, chafing the words that fight tooth and nail to leave my mouth. “Did my friend pay you to come over here?”
“Nope. I’ve been waiting all night for this opportunity,” he drawls, his smoke-cured voice soaked with a honeyed lilt that singes one hell of a hole through my belly.
That’s not a normal reaction, and I’m not even ovulating.
“To buy a lady a drink?”
“To buyyoua drink.”
He looks to be around my age, and he’s insanely handsome. He’s got fluffy, dirty-blond hair that’s parted down the middle, and it should be a crime to gift men with such voluminous hair genes. His bone structure is angular and defined—the cut of his jaw so sharp it could probably rive through granite. Not to mention that he’s donned a plain shirt, which does anexcellentjob of highlighting the impressive muscle distribution roiling underneath the thin cotton. His biceps are the size of my goddamn head, and I’m blessed—or cursed—with an unobstructed view of his corded arms, no doubt a result of a strict workout regimen. His broad, mile-wide shoulders stretch thefabric of his T-shirt as my unabashed ogling is drawn to the taper of his waist, then to the thick masses of his giant thighs, then to whatever military-grade weapon he’s packing underneath his jeans.
Shit. Why am I staring at his crotch?
